


Methods of thwarting

by orphan_account



Series: Roleswap AU [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Demon!Aziraphale, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Raphael!Crowley, Roleswap AU, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), angel!Crowley, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 02:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20107858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The millennia pass no differently when demon and angel wear different roles, save Aziraphale is far less forgiving when it comes to thwarting his adversary.





	Methods of thwarting

**Author's Note:**

> READ FIRST:
> 
> Okay so this derives of a roleswap au me and my partner came up with, its just a porn-y one shot which requires minimal knowledge of the au itself beyond the fact demon!Aziraphale goes by Staerling (pronounced Sterling) and Crowley is just the archangel Raphael. That’s lichrally all you need to know to enjoy this so uhhhhhhhh ye enjoy~

For all he’s denied of Her, despite all the ways he’s turned his back on the greater plan to perform seditions half worthy of demonic praise, given the song and dance of it all amidst the rhythm of their game and coy missteps, Staerling would be remarkably foolish to deny just how wondrously obedient the archangel is now. And how pretty, too. Millennia, it’s been, and the demon has wanted to see him supplicate from day one, would have ravished him among the rotting greenery of the Garden had he the opportunity. Instead it was decades into centuries with no shortage of sly looks and comments and touches, until, finally, he gave. Couldn’t manage to flee the car in time after the Exchange, and, really, Staerling hadn’t quite planned for the evening to transpire like this, was just as surprised at the offered flask as Raphael looked handing it over. A nightcap, the demon had offered. At his place. Could have offered just to take him home, but some hindbrain instinct took the reins on that one, and thank the burning, sulfurous stars for it, too, otherwise it might have been another eon, still, before Staerling got to see him like this. And of his own volition, too, _ oh _what a doll. The pretense of a tour, of course, show him around the opulence of his flat. Another nudge from his better senses, and the bedroom became their last, fateful stop. 

So here they are now, Staerling sat on the edge of his four poster bed with Raphael at his feet, the archangel’s knees buried in the plush carpet at the foot of the bed, hands folded in his lap, chin thrust upward for half lidded amber eyes to stare imploringly back at the demon’s hungry own as he caresses the sharp angles of Raphael’s jawline. He’s gentle about it, claws for later, when Staerling has him properly desperate. For now, he uses the pad of his thumb to appraise the archangel’s sublime bone structure, brushes it over his lower lip - nicely pink and a bit swollen where the demon had ravaged fiery kisses, the first Raphael has ever known, and will ever know if Staerling has any say in it. And he well intends to make clear tonight who Raphael belongs with, who can inflict the greatest pleasures of all. He’ll have Raphael taking Her name in vain by morning, and so very much more, too. 

Presently, though, there’s a precedent to set, an angel to whom he might introduce any and every delicious lust. And he’s curious, too, to see what Raphael will make of this, of himself knelt so willingly, of all the accompanying implications. He’s not stupid, after all. Sweetly naive, but hardly ignorant. There’s something teasingly wicked lurking in his surrender, desires stifled for so long at last permitted to indulge themselves. And, oh, he could have sat himself on the bed, permitted Staerling that way, spread himself on the sheets, a splayed homage to the most devoted virgins awaiting the purpose of their wedding night. 

Instead he chose to kneel. Well then, Staerling will make the next choice for him. 

Slowly, wordless but threatening all the more with his gaze piercing Raphael’s own, the demon guides his face closer, just a hair’s breadth, a minute pressure with his palm, but it’s enough. A breathy gasp escapes Raphael’s lips, and his eyes flutter closed as his hands take similar flight from his lap and come to rest, shaking on Staerling’s thighs.

“Look at me,” the demon says. He’ll be damned a second time over if he’s denied even a fraction of Raphael’s bliss. He wants to see those lovely eyes brimming with tears of ecstasy. He deserves to. 

“I’m sorry,” the angel whispers, voice wrecked already, but he does open his eyes again. “I… I don’t know what - how this…”

He trails off with a shuddering, deep inhale, fingers tightening their grip into the fabric of Staerling’s trousers.

The demon softens, enough to lean forward and brush a kiss to that sweet, sad mouth. “Not very much to know,” he says. “It’s all very innate, my dear. Of course,” and here, as he leans back, he takes hold of Raphael’s chin again to ensure he cannot look away, “I’m quite happy to show you.”

“I would - would appreciate that,” Raphael says, oh so quietly, and a furious blush rises to his cheeks and across his nose. 

“Oh I know you would, my dear,” Staerling purrs, and slowly begins mapping his thumb again over Raphael’s bottom lip, surreptitiously spreading his legs wider to invite the archangel just a bit closer.

“And it’s such a pity,” the demon remarks. “Don’t you think? To reserve this mouth for prayer, alone? Only…” and here he abandons his restraint for just a moment, just enough to thrust Raphael’s chin up at a demanding angle and encourage those gorgeous warm eyes to swallow themselves in pupil, “I wonder how lovely it might look, dear, stretched around my cock.”

The moment freezes there, demon staring down angel, a smirk tugging the corner of his own mouth, daring Raphael to deny this. It’s what he’s offered, after all. The second his knees graced the carpet, he submitted himself to this. He wants it. Wants to be used, his tongue and throat mercilessly fucked until Her good word can no longer find its throne there. He’s _ begging _for it…

Staerling grins, a full flash of teeth, and with his free hand tugs at his belt, his fly, puts on a little show of it until Raphael breaks free of his stupor with another gasp. 

“Go on then,” the demon says, voice dangerously low, heat already aflare in the pit of his stomach. “Prove me wrong, darling. _ Thwart _me.”

It’s a treacherous next few seconds as Raphael wars visibly with himself, but he’s wonderfully, woefully susceptible. Too much time among the humans, perhaps, too large a margin for error anymore, creating a lovely, perfect greyspace for the angel to anchor his doubts in and find freedom, at least for an evening. And, well, if the reverence with which he leans forward and carefully laves his tongue at the head of Staerling’s cock is any indication, he’s rather been aching for an excuse for a long while. 

And Staerling is nothing if not appreciative.

“That’s it,” he hisses, and, threading his fingers through the silken curls cascading over Raphael’s hunched shoulders, applies an encouraging pressure, urging the angel to take more of him. “You’re - _ ah _\- quite good at this, my dear. Sure you’ve never done it before?”

Raphael makes to pull away - probably to retort or protest - but Staerling isn’t feeling _ quite _that kind, and holds him in place until he gets the message and continues with the task he’s set for himself. 

Oh, but he really is marvelous at it. He’s yet too shy to keep eye contact, but Staerling can forgive him what for the delicious attention he’s paying the head, laps and flicks of his tongue that widen out along the underside in erratic rhythms that both prove his inexperience and thrum pleasure up the nape of Staerling’s neck. 

“Ah-_ hah _,” he gasps, when Raphael makes a noble effort to swallow more of him.

Despite the trembling that wracks him as a result, Staerling holds him there, forcing his head still so he can savor the tantalizing warmth and constriction of the back of his throat.

“_ Ahh, _good boy,” he sighs, relenting his grip and letting Raphael catch his breath in a furtive bout of coughing. 

As he permits the angel to gather his bearings, Staerling’s wonders on all the other ways he might make Raphael privy to the wonders of the body. Maybe one night he’ll introduce the angel to the whimsical concept of the refractory period. And maybe he’ll keep secret how to control it, fuck him through hours of overstimulation. Just if he’s feeling a bit mean, of course, and if Raphael has earned such a privilege. There’s a suggestion of the masochistic in him, and Staerling would _ love _to know its limits, just not tonight. For now he’ll content himself with seeing just how long Raphael can hold his breath as he guides the angel forward again and thrusts into his perfect, waiting mouth.

“You were - _ ah _ \- rather made for this wouldn’t you say?”

In fact, Raphael can say very little beyond a keening moan as he bobs his head, but Staerling continues, unencumbered even by the shocks of heat that accompany every clever swipe of the archangel’s tongue.

“Myself too,” he says, and scrapes his fingers against Raphael’s scalp. “This is our greatest gift, my dear - _ ah _ \- to pursue pleasure. It’s - it’s quite perfect. You - _ ahn _ \- you are - are _ perfect _for this.”

Raphael can offer no opinion either way, though his determination to worship so thoroughly the cock in his mouth speaks volumes, and Staerling would rather not interrupt the exquisite things he’s doing, would love this to go on for eternity if he could make that possible. But, even so new to this, Raphael is proving a worthy adversary, and, even as one so determined to enjoy life’s sweetest offerings, Staerling is getting dangerously close to the edge. And then, as Raphael mouths his lips beneath the head of his cock again, sucking the most sensitive spot, Staerling comes, quite without warning, in thick, languid streaks over Raphael’s lips, pearlescent white dripping from the corners of his slack mouth, staining his tongue as he swirls it messily around the head until the shocks of sensitivity grow too great and Staerling must pull away.

“_ Goodness _,” he breathes, and finds Raphael watching him cautiously through a cascade of hair that has fallen across his face, obscuring the gorgeous evidence of his efforts. 

“Oh, you’re brilliant, my dear,” the demon chuckles, and tucks away those strands, admiring the mess and the blush and the _ lust _ writ plain across Raphael’s face.

Staerling caresses that face, careful not to spoil any of it.

“Only I wonder,” he grins, canines on full display, promising a thousand decadent, selfish pleasures. And he tugs the archangel off those obedient, certainly-sore-now knees of his, into a kiss just a degree less sinful than murder itself, and growls against Raphael’s gasping mouth, implores down his throat, “What else you can take, darling.”


End file.
